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I recently met a woman named Ann. She was a writer. I liked her, and was attracted to her, and it was clear that she felt the same.
Then I read Ann's book. It was a strong personal memoir about one of her past love affairs, or, more accurately, its aftermath. My desire for Ann was immediately transformed by two details of this book. First, when her lover died, Ann was so stricken with grief that she spent time in a psych ward. Second, her ex-lover was an IV drug user, an addict who had been known to share needles with other users. And they had a lot of unprotected sex.
Before I read this I was attracted to Ann as a person. Now I wanted to fuck her in two very different ways, each of which distorted my vision of her so greatly that I couldn't really see her as a person anymore.
On one hand, I wanted to be better than this dead man. I'm immune to most forms of male competitiveness, or at least I like to think I am, but something in the way Ann described their attic room sex made me want to drive it from her system. To make her want me so badly that if I died, she'd go insane. Plus, I knew that any bad habit I could have couldn't be as bad as his drug addiction, but I wanted to see if I could both yoke her to me, and test her in something like the same way. This dead guy was a gauntlet her memoir had thrown at my feet. He was also a Get Out of Jail Free card for any and all bad behavior I could imagine.
On the other hand, the fact that Ann had kept fucking him made her infinitely sexy. To know that she'd kept fucking this guy after she knew he was sharing needles, and this after the rise of AIDS- now that's passion. How could I do less?
After I first met Ann, I bought condoms, just in case. But after I read her memoir, I hid them, so that if we fucked, we'd have an excuse to go bareback, and I'd be forced to give in to the moment and fuck death in her smooth, white skin, suck death from her wide, pale ass. I imagined seeing my hand wet with her vaginal juices, watching it glisten as I smelled them and tried to decide if I could risk tasting what I loved so well.
We didn't have sex, possibly because after I read her book, I could feel a pounding in my head. The combination of these two desires yoked together, desires that really weren't much about Ann at all, drowned out any real communication. Ann would speak on, intelligently, gracefully; I'd nod, shift in my seat, and stare.
But I didn't want her. I wanted to out-fuck a dead man, and to fuck death. When I looked at Ann, she twisted and expanded under the weight of my desires like she was caught in a Dali painting. I, in turn, stood there hypnotized and staring at this living evidence of sex in the exotic underworld. And I've never really been bad, and I wanted to be. A lot.
It's probably better that she pulled away, decided that she was likely to get hurt by the situation, but I found it ironic that it was me Ann kept at bay, after letting this deadly lover all the way in to her life, her immune system, and her psyche.
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